


Fever

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [10]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-22 09:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3723229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis falls sick at work, and Constance calls Athos to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



Aramis is feeling a little weird. Or maybe a lot. It's strangely warm in the shop today, despite the overcast sky, and he keeps pulling at the neckline of his shirt, keeps brushing the hair off his forehead with clumsy fingers. His eyes are burning, just enough to annoy him, and for some godforsaken reason his sewing machine is intent on giving him more grief than usual today. He can't afford a new one - certainly won't mention this in front of Athos either. 

Aramis knows Athos long and well enough now, knows Athos will buy him the best machine on the market as soon as Aramis even hints at needing a new one. He doesn't need a new one. The old one is fine, really. Just not today. And that's a shame, because Constance has come up with a ravishing new design for a dress, and he was really looking forward to bringing it to life. 

Aramis has no idea why it's so difficult today - the sewing machine isn't usually this stubborn, and his fingers are usually far from this level of clumsiness. He lets out a sigh, and then flinches as Constance materializes next to him, frowning. "You've barely made any progress. I thought you liked the design?" 

"I love it!" Aramis assures her hastily, looks up at her out of wide, nervous eyes. "It's beautiful, really - I just -" 

Her hand comes to rest on his forehead, and he freezes, has no clue as to what's going on. Her frown deepens, and then she sighs. "I think you've got a fever, you sweet little moron. Aren't you too warm? Your face is all red." 

Aramis blinks, and blinks again, as his vision suddenly blurs. "I thought it was … the weather …" 

Constance looks sceptical, and takes Aramis' phone off the table to his right where he keeps additional needles and thread in all colours of the rainbow. "You're going home," she informs him. "Call one of your Thoses." 

"Nooo," Aramis protests, trying to take his phone away from her ... with the result that a sudden bout of dizziness nearly sends him to the floor. "You don't understand! Porthos is on a trip to the Ethnological Museum with the kids, and Athos is _painting_! I can't call them!" 

"Athos it is then," Constance decides, unlocking Aramis' phone and pressing down on the picture of Athos' face with a decisive thumb. "And sit still, you fool! Don't believe I didn't see you getting all wobbly just now!" 

She keeps her hand on his shoulder while she waits for the call to connect, rubs her thumb back and forth over his t-shirt in a wonderfully soothing rhythm. Aramis doesn't voice any further protest. He does feel rather rotten all of a sudden, and then she wouldn't listen anyway. He knows her. Aggressive mothering is what she _does_. 

So he tries to sit still when the call connects and he hears Athos' voice on the other end of the line, despite the fact that he would really prefer to talk to him himself. But Constance would probably smack him if he tried to take his phone away from her now. 

"Yes, hello Athos," Aramis hears her say. "This is Constance. Can you come and get Aramis from the shop - he's got a fever." Athos says something that Aramis can't make out, but he hears the smile in Constance's voice when she replies. "A car would be lovely. He's already rather wobbly, I don't know if he could make it on foot." 

"I can walk!" Aramis protests, and Constance snorts. 

"Don't listen to him." 

This time Aramis understands Athos perfectly. "Don't worry. I won't." 

Aramis doesn't know if he should feel offended, mortified, or relieved. It's a combination of all three, really. Constance thanks Athos and hangs up, and vanishes into the little kitchen behind the shop, comes back with a cup of tea. Aramis loves her a lot suddenly - tells her as much. 

She just grins. "Not as much as you love your Thoses." 

Aramis opens his mouth to protest - and closes it. Thinks. "I do love you as much," he says eventually. "Just … differently?" 

"I can live with that," she says with a little grin, and then she brushes her fingers through his hair, again and again, nice and soothing. "I love you too." 

It takes Aramis five minutes to realize what just happened. Once he does, he opens his eyes wide, blinks up at Constance, finds that she's looking back at him with a smug grin. "Don't think you can take that back. I won't let you." The sincerity in her voice makes him feel a little weak, and she huffs, makes him drink his tea. "That can't possibly come as a surprise to you - I designed you a princess dress last week!" 

"That was for Teddy," Aramis protests - replays that in his head, and bites his lip. "I mean -" 

"I know what you mean," Constance interrupts him and rolls her eyes. "Doesn't change a thing. Now be quiet and drink your tea." 

Aramis thinks it would be wise to follow that order and keeps as quiet and still as he possibly can until Athos arrives. 

Athos does so ten minutes later. Aramis is sitting by himself in his little corner by then. Constance is dealing with a customer - an overbearing elderly gentleman with oppressively polished manners and a glass eye. Aramis tries not to look at him. The man narrowed his eyes at him when he came in - Aramis isn't feeling up to that level of disdain today; so he's more or less facing the wall when Athos opens the door to the shop, hunched in on himself and starting to feel rather miserable. 

Athos doesn't say a word to Constance when he passes her. Instead he makes straight for Aramis - puts a hand on his shoulder and gently turns him around on his chair. Aramis is so glad to see him, he couldn't even begin to put it into words. Athos looks worried, has a smudge of brown paint on his cheek, and his eyes glide over Aramis in a manner as thorough as it is concerned. "Can you stand up?" 

"Sorry for calling you," Aramis blurts out instead of answering, feeling properly wretched for making Athos come and get him. "I told Constance you were painting." 

Something soft springs into the corners of Athos' eyes. It's not quite a smile, but it's warm and kind, makes Aramis feel better instantly. "I would say your well-being is of rather more importance," Athos drawls, and then he lifts his hand, just like Constance did, and strokes his fingers through Aramis' hair, just like Constance did. "Can you stand up?" he asks again, and Aramis tries to focus on his legs instead of the sensation of Athos' fingers moving against his scalp. 

"I hope so," he says, brings both feet to the floor and makes a valiant effort. He manages it, manages to keep upright even, but Athos still brings up a hand to his chest and steadies him. 

"Well done," he murmurs, his voice quiet and soft, and then he leads Aramis out of the shop, says goodbye to Constance and promises her to call her later with a status report. Aramis barely manages a weak "bye Constance" before the door closes behind him, and he finds himself completely at Athos' mercy. Not that that's a problem.


	2. Chapter 2

This fever, Aramis decides, is an annoying affliction. He can walk, but not really, can hold himself upright, _but not really_. He could even manage to get home by himself if it wasn't for … well, the _fever_ basically. 

Constance was undoubtedly right to call Athos; Aramis just doesn't like to be a burden on him. He doesn't like how that keeps happening, how Athos always ends up having to take care of him in some way. Aramis does like the way Athos leads him outside though, all gentle and caring. Athos is really, really nice, and Aramis owes him a lot. The list just keeps growing; now it even includes chauffeur duty. There's a car parked in front of the shop. It's big and shiny, looks immensely comfortable. Aramis has never seen it before. 

Still, Athos leads him right up to it, opens the door and proceeds to help Aramis inside. Aramis isn't sure that he needs _this_ level of help, but he appreciates it nevertheless. His fever seems to be rising, and he feels a slight headache creeping in, feels it pressing down on his temples. He sinks into the seat with a little sigh, and the driver wishes him a good day, makes Aramis blink at him while Athos joins him in the back of the car and straps him in. 

"You can take us home now, Anders," Athos says quietly, to which the driver replies with a very dignified "Very well, Sir." 

Aramis feels rather out of his depth, and he turns his head to look at Athos, tries to blink away the fog obstructing his vision. "You have an Anders?" 

"I asked my mother if we could borrow him for half an hour. She sends her regards." There's a smile in Athos' voice, but he looks serious, lets his eyes travel over Aramis' face and pulls up his left eyebrow ever so slightly. "You have looked better." 

Aramis manages a shrug and lets his lids fall closed. He doesn't want to tell Athos how rotten he really feels, that he's both nauseous and in pain. When he re-opens his lids Athos is on his phone, his expression grim and resolute. 

"Don't call Porthos," Aramis says hastily - almost fails to recognize his own voice. He sounds pitiful. 

Athos takes his hand. "Don't worry," he replies. "I won't." He gently squeezes Aramis' hand, and then he lets go of it, types something into his phone. "Is it only your head that's hurting or is it a full-body pain?" 

"Just my head," Aramis replies truthfully, already forgetting that he wanted to keep quiet about his symptoms. 

Athos hums and keeps typing - proceeds to do so until the car stops and Anders politely informs them that they have reached their destination. "Do you require my assistance with helping your friend up into the penthouse, Sir?" 

Aramis shrinks from the suggestion, and Athos must notice it, for he declines. Anders doesn't appear to be offended. "Very well, Sir. Do you require anything else of me?" 

"No, you can go home now. Thank you very much," Athos says, releasing the man from his duties. He hesitates for a moment and then helps Aramis with his safety belt when he fumbles the lock for the second time. "Tell my mother I will call her later." 

Anders promises to do just that, and then he patiently waits for Athos to extract Aramis from the car. Aramis feels wobbly standing on his own two feet again - is endlessly grateful when Athos puts his arm around his waist to steady him. He doesn't _want_ to lean on Athos, but he has to, is already exhausted when they reach the front door. He's sluggish and tired, feels as though he's moving through treacle. He can't for the life of him remember if he's ever had a fever like this. If he has, it must have been when he was very young. 

Athos leads him through the foyer and into the elevator, and Aramis can sense his gaze on him, worried and strangely warm at the same time. "I'm okay," he mumbles when the elevator starts to move, but since he's leaning against the wall with his eyes closed and can barely keep himself upright, he's not sure Athos believes him. 

"We're almost home," Athos soothes him - and he hasn't let go of Aramis, is still steadying him. "You can lie down in a moment." 

"That'll be nice," Aramis replies, flounders when the elevator reaches the penthouse with a slight jolt. 

Athos catches him, leads him out of the comfortable little cabin and down the hall towards the apartment door. Aramis tries not to drag his feet too much, when all he wants to do is lie down and sleep - right here in the hall, on the nice plush carpet. 

"Almost there," Athos repeats when they stop in front of the door, unlocks it and leads Aramis inside, walks him towards his room, nice and slow. 

"Want Porthos' bed," Aramis mumbles, and Athos promptly changes course. He walks Aramis over to the requested bed, and then he makes him sit, helps Aramis out of his shoes and socks ... hesitates for a second … and opens Aramis' pants. Aramis would flush if his face wasn't so red already. 

Athos clears his throat. "Can you take them off by yourself?" 

"Yes," Aramis declares decisively. "Yes, I can." 

He can't. He would have to stand up to do it, and he can't. Or he would have to coordinate his hips and his hands and his legs to take them off while lying down, and he just doesn't feel up to that. 

There's an awkward pause. 

Athos clears his throat again. "You want me to help you with that?" 

"Yes," Aramis whispers, not so much admitting defeat as embracing the fact that he needs Athos to help him through this. "Please do."


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis is lying on his back, eyes closed, and tries not to die from embarrassment. It's not that he's never been undressed before … it's the opposite, really. He's been undressed countless times, and he always had sex afterwards, or even while the undressing was still going on. He's got a great record of multitasking in that department. And now Athos is leaning over him, has his hands on Aramis' hips, and Aramis doesn't like to think that he's _conditioned_ , but he does get a little warm. 

Maybe that's just the fever. Yes. Just the fever. He clears his throat, lifts his hips when Athos tells him to, and then it's more or less already over. Athos gently pulls his pants down, gets them off Aramis' legs, and then Aramis is free, Athos is no longer touching him, and Aramis didn't even embarrass himself or Athos in any way. It's a win/win situation all-around. Apart from the fever maybe. 

Aramis feels as if he's been running away from a truck for ten miles, just for that truck to catch up with him and roll him over at the finish line. He tells Athos as much while Athos helps him further up the bed and _tucks him in_ , and then Athos sits down at the side of the bed and gives Aramis an encouraging little smile. "The internet tells me that napping is the best course of action in your case." 

"Sounds good to me," Aramis whispers back and allows his lashes to droop. His head still hurts, but that shouldn't stop him from falling asleep. A whole brass band couldn't keep him awake. 

"I shall leave you for a moment to get a cold washcloth for your head," Athos says softly. "You go right to sleep, yes?" 

Aramis' lips pull upwards at the corners. "I'll do my very best." That earns him another smile, and then Athos stands up, and leaves the room with a few determined strides. Aramis dozes off, just like instructed, gives himself over to the healing powers of sleep. 

When he wakes up again Athos is sitting in the armchair by the window, reading a book. There's a washcloth on Aramis' forehead, just like Athos promised, and it promptly slides off when Aramis turns his head to look at him. Athos looks up when Aramis moves, is at his side within seconds. He puts the cloth into a bowl of cold water that's standing on the nightstand, and gingerly puts it back on Aramis' forehead after pressing out most of the liquid. 

Aramis sighs in bliss when the pleasantly cool fabric comes in contact with his heated skin. "Thank you." 

Athos sits down beside him, regards him out of wide, concerned eyes. "Are you feeling any better?" 

Aramis would like to say yes, but that would be a lie, and he can't lie to Athos. "No," he says quietly, feeling properly wretched for causing Athos even the slightest worry. "I'm sorry." 

"No reason for that," Athos replies, his voice warm enough to alleviate the guilty pressure on Aramis' chest. "Are you hungry? I ordered some fresh chicken soup from the place around the corner - I can warm it up for you." 

Aramis stares at him for a long moment while his heart performs a complicated staccato rhythm inside his chest. "You ordered soup for me?" 

Athos looks a bit uncomfortable all of a sudden. "I contemplated cooking, but then, well -" 

"Nonono, that's not what I meant," Aramis interrupts him hastily, reaches out and makes a grab for Athos' hand. " _Thank you_." 

Aramis likes him _so much_ , Athos doesn't even suspect half of it. Nevertheless the nervousness leaves Athos' features, is replaced by something very close to a smile. "You want it now?" 

"Yes!" Aramis decides, realizing he's _starving_. "Thank you so much!" 

This time Athos really does smile - Aramis would even go so far as to call it a chuckle. He feels instantly warmer, a little bit lighter even. Athos' smiles are amazing. "I shall get it to you right away then," Athos says. He gently pulls his hand from Aramis' grasp and gets up, walks to the door and leaves the room. 

Just like that Aramis feels incredibly lonely. And isn't that just _great_. He's always a needy bastard when he's sick; usually there's just no-one around to humour him. Thankfully Athos is back soon enough - even brings one of Porthos' incredibly practical bed-trays so Aramis can enjoy his soup in style (and without spilling half of it on Porthos' sheets). 

Athos settles back into his armchair while Aramis eats - he helped him to sit up! Aramis may never recover from this level of care - and pretends to read while Aramis inhales his food. Aramis can tell that Athos is only pretending because he never turns a page. What Aramis can't tell is whether it's his slurping noises that keep Athos from enjoying his literature or whether he's just worried that Aramis might suddenly faint. 

So Aramis decides to be the bigger man and show some fortitude. "You can leave, you know," he mumbles once he's almost finished with the soup. "Get back to painting. You don't have to sit there and guard me like this." 

He doesn't _want_ Athos to leave, wants the opposite of that, but Athos doesn't have to know that. Aramis doesn't want to keep him from his painting all day, doesn't want to be a burden. He wants Athos to be … well, _happy_ , and he hopes that his expression transports as much. 

Athos puts his book down and his brow up and regards Aramis in silence for a long moment. "No," he decides eventually. "I will stay with you." 

He sounds so very final that Aramis doesn't dare to raise any further protest, although he feels that he really should.


	4. Chapter 4

Aramis needs a while to finish his soup. The fever messes with his hand-to-mouth coordination, but he manages to eat without dropping the spoon or manoeuvring it into his cheek.

Athos stays with him, stays in Porthos' bedroom, in the armchair by the window and watches him like a hawk. He looks worried again, Aramis can tell - can see it in the way Athos grips the chair's armrests and the fact that he's literally on the edge of his seat ... always ready to spring up and prevent some yet unknown disaster.

Aramis' headache comes back while he eats, pulses in his temples and towards the back of his skull, trickles down his neck. He's getting hotter, in an entirely un-fun way - the fever seems to be rising. He finishes the soup despite all that, because _Athos ordered it for him_ , and he thinks it's actually doing him good. Still he's relieved when the bowl is finally empty.

Athos immediately springs up and takes it from him, frees Aramis from the bed-tray and helps him lie back down. He rushes out of the room with the empty bowl, rushes back in mere moments later, and sits down at the side of the bed. "You look worse than before," he says in a soft voice, sounds a bit helpless, and Aramis doesn't think - grabs his hand.

"I'm okay."

Athos lets him have his hand and squeezes it gently. "Do you want anything for your head?"

"I just want to sleep," Aramis murmurs, holds on to Athos when he tries to pull away. "Stay."

"I will," Athos promises him in a low voice, and gently pulls his hand away despite Aramis' protests. He does not walk away though; instead he stays right where he is and strokes Aramis' hair out of his face. "Do you want me to sit with you?"

"Yes," Aramis murmurs, not thinking clearly and not trying to either - he's just being honest. "Yes, please do that."

So Athos gets his book from the armchair and brings it back to the bed. He makes himself comfortable next to Aramis, with his back against the headboard, and smiles down at Aramis once he is settled. "Like this?"

Aramis smiles and nods, and Athos reaches out for the washcloth to put it back on Aramis' forehead. "Sleep then."

Aramis does as he is told.

It is dark when he wakes up again - feeling weak and exhausted, but strangely better than he did before. Athos is still sitting next to him - or maybe _again_ , for there's a bouquet of flowers on the nightstand, a beautiful one, huge and in all colours of the rainbow. Aramis stares at it for a moment, and then Athos speaks without looking up from his book. "My mother sends her regards."

He closes his book and puts it away, and that's when they hear a key in the front door. Porthos is home. Aramis makes a little noise of happiness, and Athos clears his throat, starts to move off the bed. Porthos is too fast for him. The door to the bedroom opens, and there he is, carrying a pharmacist's bag and a bouquet of flowers - causing Aramis' eyes to widen in surprise and direct an accusing stare at Athos while he manoeuvres himself into an upright position. "You _called_ him!"

Athos looks horribly guilty.

"He didn't," Porthos says, letting the bag drop to the floor and handing the flowers to Athos so he can enfold Aramis in the most glorious embrace of all time. "He sent me a text, informing me of your fever and telling me not to worry - as is the decent thing to do."

He gives Aramis a kiss, soft and sweet, and Aramis melts into him, feels so much better now that Porthos is home. "Thank you for the flowers."

"Well, they're not as good as the ones from Athos' Mom," Porthos grumbles. "How the hell does she know?"

"I borrowed Anders to drive Aramis home," Athos explains in a low voice, tries once more to escape from the bed - a plan that is foiled by Porthos' hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place.

"Did you eat?"

"He ordered me soup," Aramis proclaims proudly, and Porthos grins, fond and knowing.

"Did he order some for himself as well?"

Aramis blinks at him, horror dawning on his face. "I don't think so."

Porthos sighs, still fond, but a little bit exasperated as well. "Athos …"

"I was not hungry," Athos tries to defend himself, and Porthos rolls his eyes, drops a kiss on Aramis' forehead and straightens.

"You stay with him, you moron - I'm gonna make you somethin' to eat."

Athos glares at him. "You better get a vase for those flowers before they wilt."

"I shall do that," Porthos proclaims, fishes the pharmacist's bag off the floor and hands it to Athos in exchange for the flowers. "I brought some pain killers - the nice, mild ones, that go easy on the stomach." He hands Athos the bag, Aramis gets another kiss, and then Porthos leaves the room, doesn't bother to close the door behind him.

"I am sorry I texted him," Athos says into the silence Porthos leaves behind. "I merely thought he should know."

Aramis gives him a hug. "Were you really not hungry?"

Athos makes a surprised noise, and then he sighs, puts his arms around Aramis and holds him close. "I tend to forget to eat and drink when my mind is occupied with things of rather more importance."

His tone of voice leaves no room for doubt, and Aramis brings a little distance between them so he can look at Athos' face. "I'm so sorry that I worried you."

Athos smiles at him, soft and reassuring. "That is _not_ what I meant to say. I am certainly not blaming you for falling sick - nor do I blame you for my one-track mind. Didn't I promise you once that I would inform you when you displease me?"

"Yes," Aramis murmurs, remembering all too well and pushing back into Athos' arms, just because he can. "Yes, you did."


	5. Chapter 5

Porthos is great in an emergency. Not that Aramis' fever is all that high or all that dangerous, but still. He returns with his flowers in a vase a few moments after leaving Aramis and Athos alone together, puts them on the night stand next to the flowers from Athos' Mom and informs Athos that he will make him a sandwich in a moment.

Athos is still sitting on the bed, and Aramis is still cuddling into him, a bit drowsy but otherwise happy enough. Porthos grins when he sees Aramis' iron grip on Athos' pullover, and then he leans in, puts one knee on the mattress and brushes his lips to Aramis'. "I assume Athos took good care of you today?"

"Yes," Aramis murmurs in reply, gives Porthos his kiss back and then a few extra ones, for luck. "Yes he did."

Athos sighs, rather close to Aramis' ear. "I do know how to google." He doesn't comment on them kissing right under his nose, and Aramis grips his pullover a little harder, none too clear as to why.

"That you do," Porthos admits with a grin in his voice. "When it's for someone else you can google the shit out of the internet - Flea is still completely in love with that crafts and tool box you got her."

"I am glad to hear that," Athos drawls at him. "I am also entirely capable of making myself that sandwich. So if you would be so good as to -" Aramis interrupts him with a displeased noise and pulls on his pullover, and Athos blinks down at him. "I promise I won't poison myself."

Porthos huffs. "I don't think that's the reason for his concern." He gives Aramis another kiss, pets his hair. "Don't worry kitten, I won't let him leave you."

"Oh, won't you?" Athos drawls, but makes no attempt to leave the bed. "That is interesting."

"You got him used to havin' you in bed with him, now live with the consequences," Porthos says with a soft little smirk. "I'll be right back with your sandwich."

Aramis' face is horribly red by the time Porthos has left the room. He tries to let go of Athos, to relax his fingers and let go of Athos' pullover, has no idea why the fever makes it so very difficult for him to bear even the thought of being alone. He shouldn't act like this, shouldn't be this needy. Athos has taken such good care of him, and he deserves a rest. Just because Porthos has taken Aramis' behaviour in such good humour doesn't mean that it's alright. Aramis has no right to Athos' time or care, he's Porthos' friend, not Aramis', and he -

"Hey, what is that face, what is going on?" Athos sounds concerned, sounds gentler than Aramis has ever heard him. He brings up a hand to Aramis' cheek, cups it and rubs his thumb over Aramis' cheekbone. "Are you in pain? Do you want some of the medicine Porthos brought you?"

Aramis blinks at him, and a tear spills over, runs down his cheek and makes Aramis close his eyes in mortification. No wonder Athos thinks he's in pain when he's not; when all that's wrong with him is that he's an oversensitive, whiny -

"Hey, hey, it's alright," Athos murmurs, pulls Aramis into his arms and holds him close. "You're just exhausted, it's alright."

Aramis clings to him and sniffles, is so embarrassed to cry in front of Athos over nothing more than a slight fever. He hears Porthos come back into the room and squeezes his eyes shut, has no idea if Porthos' patience will extend to this as well. Porthos doesn't say a word. He steps up to the bed and sits down next to Aramis, pulls him out of Athos' and into his own arms. He strokes his hands over Aramis' back, slowly, soothing, and only when Aramis stops crying does he raise his voice. "Feelin' properly rotten, eh?"

The noise Aramis makes in answer to that is the most pitiful that has ever left his throat. Porthos brushes a kiss to his forehead, and then he makes Aramis lie down, puts a nice cold cloth on his forehead. "You go to sleep," he tells Aramis in a voice that probably works wonders on sick children. "Athos and I will stay with you all night long."

Athos, who's currently occupied with eating his sandwich, makes a sound of surprise at that, but doesn't dispute it. Porthos winks at Aramis. "Won't let him leave the bed, I promise."

Athos groans. "Will you shut up." His cheeks are stuffed with food, but he still manages to sound horribly posh.

Porthos makes an affronted face. "Are you telling me you're gonna leave -"

"Of course I will not!" Athos grunts, swallows his bite of sandwich and takes a deep breath. "You are not the only one who cares about him, so will you please stop making these ridiculous and entirely unnecessary promises!"

Aramis wants to kiss them both.

Half an hour later he's lying between Athos and Porthos. His head aches a little, he's too warm and feeling a bit dizzy, but then he's also as happy as he could be. Porthos put him in pyjamas before he came to bed, and since Aramis doesn't _own_ pyjamas, he assumes they're Athos'. Porthos, who doesn't own a proper pair of pyjamas either, has put on a t-shirt for once, and Aramis has rolled on his side and rested his head on Porthos' shoulder, is stroking his hand over Porthos' chest and belly in an absent-minded manner.

He is very aware of Athos lying behind him. He's not quite sure that he can fall asleep like this. They lie in the dark in silence for the longest time, and then Porthos sighs, turns his head to the side and brushes a kiss to Aramis' forehead before he speaks. "Just spoon him already."

Aramis is reasonably confused, and then Athos replies. "I am not sure that would be appropriate."

Porthos grunts in disgust. "Aramis," he begins in a long-suffering manner, "do you want Athos to spoon you so both of you can fall asleep in the utmost possible comfort?"

Aramis doesn't give himself time to think. "Yes," he whispers. "That would be lovely."

"Lovely," Porthos repeats, sounding utterly satisfied. "You heard him, Athos."

"Yes, I did," Athos drawls, and then he rolls on his side behind Aramis, puts an arm around his waist and molds himself to Aramis' back. "If either of you tells Flea about this," he murmurs into Aramis' neck. "I will kill you both."


	6. Chapter 6

Aramis wakes up with an almighty headache. His head feels strangely swollen, too hot and bloated, and he whimpers, clings to Porthos and instinctively clutches his t-shirt in both fists. It's dark in the room when he blinks his eyes open, and he has no idea how late or early it might be. He's afraid his head might split open any moment now. Still he doesn't wake Porthos. He doesn't _want_ to, knows how hard Porthos works at the orphanage, knows that he needs his sleep.

Of course Porthos wakes up despite all that. He makes a noise and snaps awake, and Aramis doesn't know if this is the result of years and years of caring for sick children, or if his death-grip on Porthos' t-shirt is to blame. He forces out a "sorry" just in case.

Porthos shushes him, puts a hand on Aramis' forehead and curses. Aramis can only guess that he usually doesn't do _that_ in front of sick children. Behind him, Athos promptly stirs awake. "What's going on?"

"His fever's risin'," Porthos whispers, causing Athos to switch on the bedside lamp and slide out of bed.

"I will get some ice water."

Porthos thanks him and lets him go, gently brushes the hair out of Aramis' face. "Headache?"

Aramis makes a pitiful noise and nods, and Porthos brushes a kiss to his heated temple. "I'll give you some of the medicine I brought, yeah?"

Aramis nods again and closes his eyes. He feels too hot, and his body hurts, feels too heavy. Whatever he did to deserve this, it must have been horrible. Aramis bites down on a whine when Porthos lets go of him, watches him move out of bed and through the room with burning eyes. It doesn't take Porthos long to find the medicine on the bedside table, and since Athos returns just then with the promised water in a bowl and an additional glass filled with the same liquid, Porthos doesn't even have to leave Aramis alone. He thanks Athos again when he takes the glass from him, and then he sits down on the side of the bed, pulls Aramis up into a sitting position.

Moving hurts, but being in Porthos' arms is infinitely pleasant, so Aramis doesn't complain. He closes his eyes for a moment, and he _loves_ the way Porthos is holding him, loves his warmth and his strength … doesn't know what he would do without him at this point. He's gotten so used to Porthos being there for him - and Athos too. No. Not used. He could never get used to them. They are too special. Still he can't help but depend on them.

Porthos squeezes him a bit at that point, and Aramis opens his eyes. He opens his lips to swallow the pill Porthos presents him with, and drinks greedily from the proffered glass of water. Porthos takes the glass away and then he holds Aramis for a long moment, strokes his hand over his head and his back, makes Aramis feel ridiculously safe and cared for.

Aramis doesn't like it when Porthos makes him lie back down, but he doesn't protest. At least not on purpose. A little whine slips out despite his best efforts, and Porthos makes a soothing noise, strokes his hand through Aramis' hair again. "You'll feel better soon, I promise."

He turns his head and looks at Athos, who's standing beside the bed. "You don't have to stay up. You can -"

"I will stay," Athos interrupts him quietly, and Aramis doesn't even notice how he relaxes at the sound of his voice.

Porthos does. Smiles at Athos and gets a smile in return. "Stubborn bastard."

"I would return the compliment," Athos drawls softly, "but I am not going to use such language in front of the patient."

He sits down in the armchair by the window again, picks up his book, and Porthos makes an amused noise, smiles down at Aramis. "That means he loves you."

Athos doesn't dignify that with a reaction or a reply. He opens his book and pretends to read while Porthos puts the cloth for Aramis' forehead into the bowl of ice water and wrings it out before putting it to its intended use. It teases a little sigh of relief out of Aramis, and Porthos takes his hand, squeezes it gently. "Feelin' a bit better?"

"Yes," Aramis whispers, "thank you."

Porthos rubs his thumb over the back of his hand. "Try to go back to sleep, darlin'. Athos 'n I will watch over you."

Aramis goes warm all over, but this time in an entirely pleasant way. Then he starts to feel guilty. Naturally. "But you need to go to work in the morning. I don't want you to -"

"The Captain knows," Porthos interrupts him gently. "He called in reinforcements. It's all okay, I promise. You just get better and don't worry about anythin' else."

Aramis feels ridiculously close to tears, and hastily closes his eyes. "Okay."

"You made him cry," Athos comments from his place by the window. "You are a shoddy boyfriend."

"He's not," Aramis protests hotly, and promptly giggles when he hears his own voice. He sounds like a rowdy kitten.

Porthos rewards this show of fighting spirit with another kiss to Aramis' forehead and then he makes himself comfortable - gets himself a second blanket and sits down on the bed. Once he's settled in he turns his head to the side and towards Athos, makes puppy-eyes at him. "What are you readin'?"

"Pratchett," Athos says curtly. "And no, I am not going to read to you."

"Of course not," Porthos scoffs and takes on a leering tone. "But to Aramis you will."

There is a pause. A rather lengthy one.

Aramis hardly dares to breathe, and then Athos says his name, softly and questioningly. "Aramis?"

"You don't have to," Aramis whispers back, and that seems to settle it - settles a satisfied little grin in the corners of Porthos' mouth, too.

"I am doing this for Aramis," Athos states in a lordly manner, and then he starts to read - and at the beginning of the book no less. The sound of his voice is just as soothing as Porthos' touch, and Aramis sighs deeply. The medication must be kicking in. He feels much better already. Porthos strokes his fingertips through Aramis' hair, gentle and caring, and he doesn't say a single word, lets Athos read in peace. Aramis falls asleep to Athos' voice, falls asleep with Porthos' fingers in his hair ... falls asleep with a smile on his face.


	7. Chapter 7

It's light out when Aramis wakes up. The shadows on the ceiling suggest that it's rather late, and so does the empty feel to his stomach. His head feels much better though. He is no longer in pain, doesn't feel all that hot anymore either. All the fever has left him with is a rather severe case of exhaustion. He can deal with that. At least he thinks he can. He's not alone in this after all.

He turns his head to the side, vaguely expecting to find Porthos still sitting up next to him, and he is, but not alone. Athos has squeezed himself onto the bed with him, has occupied the small space right next to the edge and folded himself underneath Porthos' arm, probably in an effort not to fall off. Aramis can see the hint of a smile in the corners of Athos' mouth, and he smiles back quite automatically despite the fact that Athos is very much asleep. He has mushed his face into Porthos' chest, is pressing his cheek into the soft t-shirt Porthos is wearing, and he looks so very comfortable that Aramis lets out an involuntary sigh.

He turns on his side for a better view, blinks up at the way Porthos is holding Athos close, at the way his hand rests on Athos' waist. Porthos' face is slack in sleep, completely relaxed, and Aramis loves the little pout on his lips. He loves Porthos' mouth, loves everything about his face really, has repressed the urge to reach out and boop his nose far too often in the last few weeks. He represses it now too, balls his hands into fists and forces himself to do nothing more but look, to drink it all in with his eyes and not disturb Porthos' sleep - or Athos' for that matter.

Porthos took today off so he can take care of him, and Aramis is of the firm opinion that he should sleep in for once - and Athos too. They already took such good care of him, made him feel loved and secure despite his illness. They deserve some rest. So of course Porthos wakes up.

He makes a tiny noise, low and rumbling like an especially friendly bear, and then he blinks his eyes open … smiles as soon as he realizes that Aramis is looking at him. "Hey there. Good mornin'." He reaches out his free hand and takes Aramis' into it, gives it a gentle squeeze. "Are you feelin' better?"

"Much," Aramis whispers back, holds on to Porthos' hand, enjoys its warmth. "I think my fever is gone."

"We'll see about that," Porthos murmurs pleasantly - peeks down at the sleeping Athos. "As soon as this one is out of the way."

"Don't wake him," Aramis begs, his voice all the more urgent for its reduced volume. "He must be so exhausted."

Porthos pulls his hand away then, lifts it to Aramis' face and brushes an errand strand of hair behind his ear. "You aren't quite as difficult to care for as you think you are, kitten."

He smiles at Aramis, eyes warm and honest, and Aramis' body reacts accordingly - provides him with all the proper tingling and fluttering. "I'm not?" he asks, managing to sound surprisingly flirty despite his intentions, and Porthos' smile morphs into a grin.

"You are not," Athos answers for him, sounding sleepy and bemused. "How the hell did I end up here?"

Porthos chuckles. "You looked uncomfortable on the armchair, that's all."

Athos makes no attempt to move. "Well," he drawls, "I will give you this much - I am not uncomfortable now." He pats Porthos' belly, eyes closed, still not moving. "Thank you for rescuing me from the armchair. I am sure I would have spent a horrible night in it - considering how we spent hours to find the most comfortable one and have slept in it without any evil repercussions on more than one occasion."

Aramis' mouth pulls into a fond smile, and he shares it with Porthos, bites his bottom lip to stifle a giggle.

"Teddy bear," Athos says, still sounding rather sleepy, and Porthos brushes a kiss to his forehead.

"Ungrateful grump."

"Ah, that's not fair," Aramis protests happily. "He did thank you for saving him - and teddy bear isn't even a proper insult."

"There you go," Athos murmurs, patting Porthos' belly again. "Listen to your boyfriend. And make him some breakfast. It's late, and he's probably hungry."

"I can't," Porthos says fondly. "I got my arms full of sleepy grump."

"That is entirely your doing," Athos replies lordly, "and your problem to deal with."

He still hasn't opened his eyes, has his face still mushed into Porthos' chest, and Aramis' own chest aches with love for them both. They are such a joy to be around, love each other so fiercely that it bleeds into everything they do or say, and touches those who are close to them. He'll never stop being grateful that they let him become a part of their life, will never stop being amazed at it.

"That is a good face," Athos comments, has finally opened his eyes and is gazing down at Aramis. "Look, Porthos."

Porthos follows the order, smiles and nods. "You're right."

He leans to the side, lower and lower, always pulling Athos with him, until he's finally nose to nose with Aramis and can give him a kiss.

"Good face," he murmurs, gives Aramis another kiss, "very good face."

Athos releases a long-suffering sigh and bears it, and when Aramis looks to check Athos' face is rather close to his own. Athos isn't watching them though. He has closed his eyes again, looks just like he did when Aramis woke up - including the smile. "How about you let go of me Porthos?"

"Don't want to," Porthos states shortly, and gives Aramis another kiss, teases a groan out of Athos that makes Aramis giggle. Porthos chuckles too, and Athos huffs and tries to wriggle out of Porthos' hold - to no avail. Porthos' arm around him doesn't budge, keeps holding him, safe and secure, and all that happens is that Athos' pyjama top slides a little higher on his torso.

"I hate you," he informs Porthos a little breathlessly, and Porthos chuckles again and winks at Aramis.

"No you don't."

Aramis giggles again, initiates another kiss, and pulls back. "Let him go, Porthos, come on."

Porthos pouts but relents, and Athos gets up, straightens his clothing and directs a fond smile at Aramis. "Coffee?"

"That would be lovely," Aramis tells him, honestly grateful, and then Porthos gets up as well.

"I'm gonna make breakfast."

Aramis blinks up at him, feeling rather cold suddenly, and Porthos promptly bends down to pick him up, blanket and all. "You can watch us from the sofa."

Aramis loves him so much it hurts.


End file.
